


The Droning Engine Throbs In Time, With Your Beating Heart

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Because BOYS On Film Look Better [3]
Category: Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Band, Bondage, Cars, Clothing Kink, Developing Relationship, Erotica, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Kisses, Lace, Leather Kink, M/M, Models, Nipple Play, Pining, Sex in a Car, Sexual Tension, Threesome, band sex, lyrics, music video, raunchy, touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: Leather and lace encasing his skin, he sat back moaning into the plush of the seat. A single, hot finger runs torturously lower down his nude chest, sparking fires, as a hand comes to rest atop of his beating heart.
Relationships: Andy Taylor/John Taylor (Duran Duran), John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/Nick Rhodes, Simon Le Bon/Nick Rhodes/Andy Taylor/John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Because BOYS On Film Look Better [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075265
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	The Droning Engine Throbs In Time, With Your Beating Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a certain iconic, raunchy music video in which I think would be way more interesting if the guys had been featured. Then one thing lead to another and now I have the smuttiest fic about it. 
> 
> It’s intentionally all a little too erotic, overly detailed and drawn out as, well, that’s the video-right?

Tones of sepia, dull and delightful greens blurring the border into greys were what the eye could see. Rich, old fashioned, connoting the subtle elegance of a time not long forgotten: all swallowing every colour planet Earth had ever known. Every front of every shirt, blazer and _dress was shadowy lined_ , to perfectly define each and every curve: every muscle doused in the luxe _colour and shape_ of another age. So mesmerising, blinding, enticing.

Tinkly music flowed through the stereo so soothing, that it was mystical enough to have any man caught in a trance. It was ever so stimulating, spinning rhymes of promise and intrigue.

A deft, leather clad hand leant forward to slowly crank the knob, letting the beat penetrate further, _deep in the mind_. A finger, then joined by a thumb, inched the knob to the right: slow to steady; adagio to andante. A sigh pierced at the air in agreement, the whistle thrumming throughout the small space: gaining intensity; heightening the want. The desire.

Two plush lips, caressed in seducing satin, parted to engulf a stabling breath. Those lips were red, a blinding scarlet that tainted them black in the light. He ran a slick, calloused finger over up to them, slow and teasing. That finger delved lower, free from any colour stain, to languidly trail across his smooth skin. It was hot to the touch, provoking the breaths to grow shaky again; for moans to creep their way from those parted and moist lips.

Running the smooth digit back up to caress his cut jaw, the tops of his cut cheeks, he rounded back downwards to those pesky lips. Taking a finger in, he moistened them with a barely audible groan: a breathless sign of appreciation, of want. Of the truest desire.

There was a figure mere millimetres away; hot breath caressing, teasing and inching closer to those miles of exposed, pasty, precious skin. He watched through shielded eyes, frames as black as the night, as the man beside him began to trail those nimble digits back over his exposed body. They ran dreamily across his collar bones, cut to the finest degree, a sight _so newly charming_ that those shielded eyes couldn’t be drawn away.

The lips, coated and shiny, let a moan slip: the ultimate surrender as a digit dipped low to grope at his chest. His smooth hand lay atop of his left nipple, sighing as the welcome heat bought it to life, hardening under his hand. The fingers hovered there, not even daring to touch.

Another set of ruby stained lips were caressed by the heat of tongue, these lips glimmered in the light against the noir the luxe sepia that would coat them. He let his mouth fall open to convey his smooth yet husky voice, tilting his head upwards. He let his eyes flicker to the mirror that glistened, as it was angled to the perfect degree. He could see, feel and marvel over the gentlemen at his back.

A teasing tongue flickered out to the bottom lip of the man as he ran his other hand up towards his hair. The dirty blonde was lost amongst the striking cap, woven only with the finest leather and topped only with the finest, luscious, golden trim.

“What lucky soul” the man paused as his hazel eyes searched for those behind. “Requests the company of such fine, young men?” He stated, hands coming to rest back atop of the wheel.

His hazel eyes were shining, they sparkled against the heavy noir that painted them. All around, up and over, the crisp lines forced a gaze so intense, so predatory and yet: there was no sight as soft as the admiration in those hazel eyes.

The man with the sensually stained lips engulfed another breath. He lay back in his seat with a sigh, eyes drooping ever so slightly closed.

His words waltzed their way forward, gaining conviction as the man himself gained confidence. He lay a nimble finger atop of his thigh, letting slip a moan upon caressing the leather that encompassed it. The leather that would both hide and highlight his lean figure, his lengthy yet delectable limbs.

Letting his head tip backwards he again sighed in appreciation, upon having heard the man introduce himself. His words were beautiful, rhythmic and reassuring as both men were enticed, _looking for a new place to drive._

“You’re most welcome, _Master_ ” A suggestive pause and raise of a blonde, suggestive eyebrow, “Taylor.”

The small, lustful space was stifled by the most precious of giggles. The sounds were delightful, cheery, bringing an ease to the sexually tense air.

“Have I said something wrong?”

Both men regarded each other, sharing a knowing look. Both faces were carved with such a care that neither man could conceal their beauty.

A foreign yet so homely voice was gaining in volume, tones from somewhere so distant that the man in question couldn’t place. “I’m afraid _Master_ Bates, you’ll have to be more specific. There’s two of us.”

“Two?” He questioned, brining his fingers encased in delectable leather up to his chin.

“Why yes, Master Bates. We share the surname Taylor. No relation.”

Throughout the tiny mirror the man upfront could begin to piece together the looks on their faces behind. They were smiling, sharing that smile that tried to cast its way over the lust that pooled between them.

With a chuckle, the small space was filled again. “Oh my, that is ever so confusing. My sincere apologies.”

“Please, sir, no need. No need for any of that.” The man with the shielded eyes stated, licking his lips and bringing two dexterous hands to lay atop of his lap. He too was decked out in the finest of leather, body encased in the fabric tight. “The name is Andy.”

“It’s indeed a pleasure, Andy.”

“The name’s John” The man to Andy’s left, whose nimble fingers were back to laying limp atop of his breast spoke. “Those who have raised me, educated me, taught me the ways of the world- call me Nigel.”

“Nigel. What an interesting name. It’s, why yes it is truly beautiful.”

A cute blush added to the subtle layer of colour that painted those cheeks. “Thank you, you’re too kind. What may we call you, sir, or will _Master_ Bates suffice?”

“Nicholas Bates. Although I do appear as Rhodes to many of my clients.” His voice dropped, to a dangerously seductive tone. “Sir, or Master is also welcome.”

Provoked by a sudden curiosity, both Taylors inched closer, leaving the plush leather seats, warm and cosy, warm and stimulating, behind.

Nicholas continued, slick leather doused fingers gripping at the wheel. He focused his hazel eyes and sighed as his shimmering lips fell open, ready to reveal all.

“However, my dear Taylors, I have gained the reputation, the notorious branding: _The Chauffeur_ by my most… elite clientele.”

A set of eyes as black as the night had blown wide. He let the name, the title, describe the man to him. John let his body fall back into the plush, sighing as his nude skin turned hot at the sudden contact: the welcoming leather and he revelled in the feeling.

Turning his head to one side John watched, entranced by Andy’s movements. His nimble fingers lay atop his thigh, brushing against the smooth vinyl that gleamed in the light. They wore fishnets, the holes painting the skin is such a sweet, delectable noir: framing every muscle. Within moments he was peeling away at it, revelling in every motion that exposed every tender inch of flesh.

_T_ _he Chauffeur_ , Nicholas, caught John’s teasing movements. His eyes, over-lined and piercing, focused on the lengthy limbs that became exposed to him. He could only see through his mirror, having already angled it to the perfect degree.

Both Taylors were shining, showing him all that they could with such an erotic grace. They let tender touches caress tender skin, rubbing downwards, ensuring that no body part was missed.

Grinding his head back into the rest, the stained lips of John, mesmerising with a predatory look, sent his tongue to caress his bottom lip. He moaned, throwing his head back, before biting at it. Drawing blood and licking slowly, torturously, over it. Again and again, lapping up the stray liquid.

His deft hand plummeted back down his chest, the light hairs that began to dust it. He caught himself inching back towards that nipple, standing proud and beckoning his touch. John lay a smooth hand above his breast, above his _beating heart._

_“Roger_ ” he ground out, the sound almost violent as it dropped from his lips. He let his mouth water, he let his eyes slip shut. He let himself envision the man in his bed, waking up with a single name on his lips: _Taylor_.

***  
  


The words rang through his head, amplified with the sensual tingle of the mystical music. It was as though the man could hear him, feel him, the torturous thoughts of where his lips would caress, where his smooth fingers would plummet: wiping clean all thoughts of innocence and naïvety.

An able yet calloused hand palmed the white comfort, lost in the sea of it. The body contrasted harsh against the purity of the sheets as it had no creases or rumples. His back arched delectably, his moans were soft and inviting. He envisioned his lovers as mouths parted and saliva was shared, hands touched and sparks set fires atop his aching skin. _Sweating dew drops glisten_ atop of their bodies, always, as the sway of their hips drove each man further from reason. Their hearts would beat, _the droning engine_ synching in a perfect rhythm as together they rocked further into the night.

He felt it, the beating of his heart. Letting his eyes, a delicate Pinot noir, fly open as he swiftly rose to seated. His palm, slightly battered, came to rest peacefully atop of his smooth chest. There was no hesitation, no second thought as he immediately found his destination: _his new place to drive._ Landing atop of his _beating heart_ , the man let out a pleased sigh that pierced, warming, the lonesome air.

He was reminded of his love and adoration, those who were calling to him although they were surely never too far away. He was holding the thought, the precious memory, _fast in his gaze_.

The man’s chest was bare, peeking through the teasing holes of teasing nylon that were draped so lovingly to his strong form. His leather underwear hung low on his hips, clinging to them and perfectly framing his lower half. The leather was strong, insistent, a constant reminder of how he let himself fall victim to those touches: they were ruthless, so hot.

He began to crawl from his bed, having lain solitary for far too long. He ran a tongue over his bottom lip, swallowing any and all words as he rose to his feet. They were bare, soaking up the soft feathers of his plush, white carpet. His feet lead him to the mirror opposite his bed, in which his stance appeared blurry at first. The man focused his eyes, his gaze becoming heated at the mere sight of himself: blush already settling atop his defined cheekbones.

Both arms shot forward, heading for the dresser that stood in the far wall of his bedroom. The white was blinding, the high ceilings proved intimidating and lonesome all at once. The bed, it’s worn in mattress amplified his state: alone and aching, with a sheer need to be claimed again; taken again as _the sun drips down._

Engulfing a shaky breath, the man cocked his head upwards as he exposed the delectable column of his throat. His Adam’s Apple bobbled, veins pulsed, as he could envision those tender touches: the hot moisture that would coat his smooth skin.

He fought to tear himself free from the shackles of those haunting memories to no avail. Glancing downward he caught sight of the piece. It glimmered, beckoning him to it. It was laughing at him, his weakness, being drawn towards its taunting glimmer like a drummer to his bassist.

His limbs took on a mind of their own, the lace that ran itself around his wrists, the clinking of the silver, rang throughout the room. A finger inched closer just daring, daring to touch it. Daring to embrace it, to remind itself of how shattered glass should look and feel. To remind himself of _what glass splinters_ felt like, pouring into him and letting his mouth run dry.

The broken mirror, the key, the key to his aching heart: the stirring down south, felt anything but foreign. The weight was so familiar, oddly comforting, that it saw the man running his left hand back over his chest. His head began to loll backwards, his breaths began to stutter. They were erratic, a warning siren. A torturous digit trailed lower, more persistent.

He bought the piece, his beloved memory, up to his chest: right above his heart. Enclosing it in his palm, he gripped tight.

“ _Andy_.”

The glass manoeuvred it’s way upwards as the man again fell into a trance. Bringing it to his quaking bottom lip, he uttered “ _John_.”  
  


***  
  


A huge hand, slender fingers littered with small callouses that in no way made them any less magnificent: bought a familiar, intriguing weight up to his face.

It rose above the leather, privileged to bypass the naked chest. It was bought with such need, such love, up to the painted lips. Black rimmed eyes fluttered closed, black tinted lashes fanning, as his mouth parted to expose an adorable overbite.

He moaned, the sound raw and untamed, before kissing it. Kissing the shard of glass, the mirror. The perfect reflection of the memory, his yearning, for his man. Their man, their Roger.  
  


***  
  


He, the final piece to the overly exotic and elusive Taylor puzzle, began a brisk but powerful strut. Roger delved headfirst into the murky black, the streets littered with puddles and shadows appearing at every side. As he left his solitary confinement’s _further behind_ , he let himself raise his head and he kept his gaze high.

Rounding corner after corner, he let his shadow dance its way through as the encore, the reminder. He was heading straight for them, the tension rife and blurring over his lusty eyes to watch anything but _lovers part_ , he’d _see them smiling_.

The walk was terribly long. He felt as though he was being suffocated, blinded by his want, his will to see them both again. To just feel them, be privy to their beautiful bodies as they unveiled themselves to him: coming undone at every seam.

  
***  
  


The journey continued as John clutched the glass close to his chest, his painted fingers catching the light. He let his other hand linger further south, running teasingly up his own thigh. He hissed at the contact, having another lingering finger on him; another body looming over him, threatening him to let go and rid himself of his leather shackles, his lace enclosures, his satin cage.

Those delirious digits inched closer to their destination, the thrum of excitement, the promise of pure pleasure a new high in both sets of aching veins. The car, a sleek noir Rolls Royce with a sensuality so overpowering it proved more than just erotic; whirled it’s final corner and lighting up the dim of floor after floor. They were taken higher; driven by their hearts as they were overcome by desire. Abused by their lust.

_The Chauffeur_ lay out a deft hand, awaiting the heated touch that would readily burn through its leather casing. They clambered out with grace, being guided, as together they thanked _The Chauffeur_ with a single, heated look so intense that it spoke volumes: screaming everything neither man could bring their sweet lips to say.

John and Andy stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, John with a hand in his pocket and his other ruffling his overgrown hair as it fell into his eyes. He ran his slick hand through it, slow, and it trailed down the left side of his face. His breath hitched at the sudden rush of intruding body heat.

A single finger made its attack, running seemingly over every groove, every inch of skin on show. Andy caressed his face so lovingly, touches lighting fires atop the apples of John’s cheeks. He fingered his way over to his earring, the silver drop that glinted when it caught the light. With little restraint saw John leaning into the embrace, sharing a moan as he felt that fire pool within him once again.

Together they strutted, heads held high, into the blurry haze. The shadows danced, following their lead, in their rhythm. The tinkly music was blaring, serene yet so stimulating that trying to ignore it proved futile. It had graduated to a wind section, full of poetic sounds that just wafted so effortlessly along the breeze.

Pulses were raised and heartbeats soared. Both sets of eyes, Andy having removed his shades, fell upon the delectable figure of the third Taylor. He was still far too many metres away, wearing far too many layers. A single look and mouths watered, eyes blowing wide. They were walking, desperate to stay slow, mysterious, anything to play out the moment.

_The Chauffeur_ perched atop of the car, the cool metal felt like heaven on his hot skin. The noir glistened, it was blinding but he made sure that he didn’t blend in: his sequins jived to their own pulsing beat in the headlights.

He began his journey knowing _there was more to this type of camouflage_ , he was more than just looming _some colour or shape._ His hazel eyes focused on the lean figures, the calculated movements, the self confidence that radiated from each man.

Tailing a post amidst the pool of lust, he leant up against it and cocked an eyebrow. They weren’t as alone as they had thought, in the confinement’s of the car park: all drab and dreary, these Taylors.

Andy caught sight of him, before immediately focusing his attention on the prize before his uncovered eyes: the forbidden fruit that was finally no longer so forbidden. The steps were agony that limbs trembled, failing to steady themselves and fall in like to the blearing flute tingling on the breeze. He leant forward into Roger’s space, it echoed this need to be touched, to be taken care of.

Wordlessly, the three men whipped open their trench coats: the muted ‘shush’ of the fabric could no longer dull the mystical flute that rang through the heated air. There they stood, bodies enrapt in leather confinements, lace and satin: dripping in the finest of silver.

John took another daring step forward, as did both Andy in Roger in unison. Heads nodded and the lights again flashed: palms were raised, open and inviting before creeping closer to the miles of skin that were now so readily waiting.

Lights flickered, neither gaze could waver. Each Taylor was so caught up in the sight of the other, every bulge, that they almost missed the final instalment of this gracious reunion. The track hit a new crescendo, the flute solo heightening in terms of complexity: dripping in liquid silk that was so seemingly wrapped around another man. So mystical, so enchanting.

He stepped forward, hips swaying maddeningly to his own beat. He too wore a leather cap, decorated in golds that gleamed for miles and miles. His coat mimicked that of _The Chauffeur_ , brass buttons shining and the velvet was rich. Without word, a deft hand shot upwards and whisked off his cap, tossing it off to one side. This unveiled his beautiful golden locks that shone even brighter than any of the finer accessories the man wore with pride. His eyes were blue, tone green in the murky light: the sepia amplifying something dark as it crept over them, the tug of his lips.

_The Chauffeur,_ Nicholas, stood time his side: the two bodies backlit by smoke.

“Care to join me, _Master_ Bates?” He held out a hand, he raised a suggestive blonde eyebrow.

The man in question turned his head, pursing his painted lips. “I’ll have to decline. You know I don’t dance, _Master_ Le Bon.”

Both men shared a smirk, glances refusing to leave the other man. Nicholas watched at Le Bon, or Simon as he preferred to go by, creep closer to him.

His breath brushed up against _The Chauffeur’s_ ear, hot an insistent. The man had a very dominating aura, even if he was only wearing a trench coat and black boots with likely little to nothing wrapping his tan skin underneath.

“They honestly are not even aware of our presence.” Simon stated, signalling to the Taylors caught in their trance, “How must we make our statement?” Hands now traipsing dangerously down his lightly muscled figure.

_The Chauffeur_ watched Simon stroll _way down the lane away_ , diving head first, head held high into the fray.

The Taylors were mesmerised, entranced, rife with tension and sheer need. Without word all three men raised both hands, palms up, before parting them and beckoning each other over. They drew each other in, palms electric as they finally met.

Dancing on the highs swirling through their veins, the tension bleeding and leaving them breathless: each Taylor let their hips rock and palms sway. The flute chimed, singing in all the colours that the nostalgic aura had stripped away, the notions of blue and silver were blinding, mesmerising and magical: a true beauty that the Taylor men embodied.

The showman was more than ready to drop his coat and unveil the leather trousers underneath. His chest was bare with a sheen of sweat beginning to form. With a swift flick of his wrist, the leather was violently flung to floor. Simon found his own beat, arms flailing in a robotic motion, hitting the accents with a slow, mad grind of his cut hips. He was bare, radiating in confidence, swaying side to side and singing his own chorus of blue and silver.

The Taylor boys graciously shared body heat, electricity and together they kept up their intense rhythm. Skin flush, skin chaffed; the leather was stifling but proving too stimulating to be removed in that moment. Chains clinked, metal crashed as together they rocked; back and forth, side to side; falling victim to their lust and dripping want.

_The Chauffeur_ stood with a smirk in place at his accomplishment. The scene was incredibly erotic, taking its time to unravel. Each man was becoming undone by the other, the power and rhythm between them delivering promise after promise of love, tender touches and the ultimate pleasure.


End file.
